Fight for Perfection
by JustMakeLeftTurns
Summary: Norway can't help but compare himself to Sweden and Denmark. They're strong and muscular, while he's … not. He decides he needs to get rid of that extra fat the fastest way possible: by not eating at all. After all, he needs to be perfect for Denmark.
1. Keeping a Secret

_**Just like what I did with 'Catch Your Breath,' I put together these chapters from my 100-Day Challenge. I liked this plot, as well, and decided to give readers who don't like 100-Day Challenges the opportunity to read a small part of it.**_

_**If you like this, and 'Catch Your Breath,' then you should try reading my 100-Day Challenge!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**_

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**Chapter One: Keeping a Secret**

He'd never been comfortable in his own body. He'd grown up feeling awkward about himself.

When both Sweden and Denmark had shown off their abs, he'd been jealous and felt out-of-place. He'd left the two and entered his bedroom. He'd leaned against the closed door and poked hesitantly at his non-existent abs. He'd felt nauseous when he realized just how squishy it was.

He'd turned to the mirror, lifted his shirt up, and stared at the horrible image that was his body. He'd poked at his 'abs' some more, noted how he needed to work a bit on them. He'd heard Denmark calling for him, so he let his shirt drop and left to find the annoying idiot.

Before he'd gone to bed that night, he'd done 200 sit-ups.

The next morning, in the bathroom, he'd stripped and taken a good look at his body. He'd realized that, along with the squishiness in place of hard abs, he had a pudgy stomach. And his thighs were out of proportion with his hips and butt – all three needed to lose some fat.

He'd skipped eating until dinner, and even then he'd only eaten an apple. Then another 200 sit-ups.

It went on like that for quite some time. He never told anyone else – he wanted it to be a surprise. When he was skinny enough, when he was perfect enough, he'd show them all. Denmark especially. Then maybe Denmark would make love to him, and they'd both admit their feelings.

That was his biggest motivation. Denmark. He wanted to be perfect for his potential lover. He'd loved Denmark for the longest time, but was too self-conscious to speak up about it. As soon as he was perfect and loveable and beautiful, he was going to confess. But not beforehand. He needed to lose weight, get better curves, get rid of that fat. After all, Denmark wouldn't want to touch and hold and mark an imperfect man.

The first time he'd binged, he'd been devastated. He'd eaten almost everything in the fridge. He could feel the food weighing him down. He'd cried and punched the wall. But all of that food at made him sick. He'd run to the toilet and thrown up. He'd been amazed at how light he felt afterwards – but he'd still felt full. And if he just exercised a bit more …

He ate meals when around people or when desperate, but purged afterwards.

Iceland had confronted him about his weight loss. He'd only shrugged and said he'd taken up exercising a bit more. Iceland hadn't been convinced but had left it alone. He'd felt bad about it, but he needed to be the perfect brother for Iceland, so until he was skinny enough, he wouldn't say anything.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd first started trying to become skinny. He just knew that he was in the habit of not eating breakfast or lunch, binging at dinner then purging afterwards, running laps around the neighborhood, doing 200 or more sit-ups, then weigh himself before bed.

Every night, he was not satisfied with the numbers on the scale. So he worked himself harder every day to make up for it.

He thought he'd been doing pretty good, until Denmark had made a surprise visit. The latter had caught him purging. His excuse of being sick seemed to work. The subject wasn't brought up again until that night, when Denmark insisted he sleep in the same bed as him. He'd agreed after a lot of whining. He regretted the decision when Denmark cuddled him and asked him,

"Why were you really throwing up earlier?"

He tried to get away, but Denmark had a firm grip on him. Denmark's eyes widened. He didn't know why. Denmark's hands traced over his arms, then lifted up his shirt. He protested, but the Dane was persistent. Denmark started crying, of all things, into his hair. He, too, began to cry.

"I know, I'm hideous and fat and horrible –"

Denmark shook his head frantically. "No. No, you're not. W-why would you ever think that?"

He leaned into Denmark. "I just want to be perfect for you, and for Iceland, and for everybody. I just want to look better and be skinnier and healthier."

Denmark grabbed one of his hands. "You're already perfect. But, Norge, this … what you're doing to yourself … it isn't healthy." He opened his mouth, but Denmark cut him off before he could speak. "You're sick. You need help. Please, let me help you."

"I don't need help," he snapped. "I'm fine. I just need to be a little bit skinner, and then I can be perfect for everyone."

"Norge, you need help. You're obsessed with your weight. With your looks. Let us help you. Let me help you."

He didn't reply. Denmark sat up and dragged him over to where the mirror was. Denmark's hands gently tugged his shirt up. He was forced to look at how ugly he was. He turned his gaze away.

"Look at yourself, Norge, and tell me you're okay." He ignored Denmark. "_Look at yourself_!"

Jumping at the sudden yell, he observed his body in the mirror. Denmark took off his own shirt.

"Look at the two of us," Denmark told him. He did so. He felt himself breaking. "Now tell me you're okay."

Instead of speaking, he turned his head into Denmark's chest and cried.


	2. Food

**Chapter Two: Food**

Food.

Who knew one little word would disgust him so much?

Norway stared at the plate before him, hands clenched in his lap. It was a Norwegian dish, and while he appreciated Denmark's efforts, there were so many calories in that one plate. Feeling sick to his stomach, Norway pushed the plate away from him. He looked down at the scratches in the table.

"Norge," Denmark pleaded. Norway hated to hear his almost-lover so pained, but he hated calories even more. He knew it was wrong, he knew that he had to eat – but the calories would make him fat. He'd become big and ugly again, and then Denmark would never want him, and Iceland would be disgusted by him.

He sat stiffly in his chair, face blank. He couldn't eat the food. He just couldn't. He heard Denmark sigh. He closed his eyes. He hated disappointing Denmark. He wished he wasn't so pathetic. But if he hadn't been fat in the first place, this would never have happened. Things would have never gotten out of control.

"Norge, just eat half of it," Denmark begged. Norway shook his head.

"I can't," he said, voice cracking.

"Tell me why you can't."

Norway shook his head.

"Norge, tell me why you can't!" Denmark shouted, eyes watering.

Norway jumped. He opened his eyes but didn't look up. "Because I'll be fat again," he admitted. "I know I went too far, but I really did need to be skinner."

"No you didn't!" Denmark yelled, slamming his hands on the table. "You were perfectly healthy before you started starving yourself."

"But compared to you –"

"We're different people," Denmark said, taking a breath. "You don't have to look like me, just like I don't have to look like you."

Norway didn't know why Denmark would ever want to look like him, but kept his thoughts to himself. He resumed glaring at the plate of food set before him. His eyes glanced up at Denmark, who stared at him, waiting for the shorter blond to eat.

Norway bit his lip, knowing that Denmark wouldn't leave until he'd eaten. He reluctantly picked up his fork and took a small bite. He barely tasted the food. He chewed exactly ten times before swallowing. He took a drink of water. He glanced up at Denmark. Denmark continued watching him. Norway took another smaller-than-bite-size piece. Chewed another ten times. Took another drink of water. Repeat.

After what seemed like forever, half of the plate was gone, and Norway felt close to bursting. He shook in self-hatred and anger and pain. So many calories. He'd be fat in no time. How could Denmark even stand to look at him?

But then he saw Denmark smile, albeit a bit sadly, but it was still a smile. "You did good, Norge," Denmark told him. "We'll try again later, okay?"

Norway nodded jerkily. Denmark didn't let him out of his sight until he knew Norway had digested the food. Norway closed his eyes, tears pricking behind his eyelids. It was going to be difficult. He knew that. But seeing Denmark smile made it worth it.


	3. Fortitude

**Chapter Three: Fortitude**

Norway glanced down at the plate, then up at Denmark's expectant face, then back down at the plate. He struggled to contain his breathing. He didn't understand why this was so hard. It was just half a plate. He just had to eat half of it. Just like he had yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And so many other days before that one. Why wasn't it getting any easier?

He carefully took a bite. Chewed exactly ten times. Swallowed. Took a drink of water. Waited exactly twenty seconds. Repeated the cycle. Denmark finished his own food and had seconds and part of a third plate before Norway had finally finished eating half of his portion. Denmark smiled sadly, told him good job – as if he were a dog learning a new trick – and then went to wash the dishes.

Norway glared at Denmark's spot across the table from him. How could the taller nation eat so much more than him and yet stay so fit? He never gained any wait, not like Norway. He was muscular and handsome and perfect, the opposite of Norway.

Norway felt nauseas from eating so much. His stomach protested with the amount of food he'd consumed. He held a hand to his mouth. He glanced over at where Denmark was drying the plates. Norway couldn't stand it. He had to get those calories – all of that fat – out of his body. Now.

He leapt to his feet and ran to the bathroom, ignoring Denmark's shouts. Norway had his fingers down his throat before Denmark had reached him. Norway gagged and spat into the toilet. He felt Denmark's glare on his back. When Norway was finished, he flushed the toilet, washed his hands and his mouth, before turning slowly to Denmark. He refused to make eye contact with the man, ashamed.

"What the hell, Norge!" Denmark yelled. Norway flinched. "You were doing so well!" Norway stayed silent. He felt the back of his neck heat up. "What happened?" Norway shrugged. "Look at me, Norge." He hesitated. "Look at me!"

"What do you want me to say?" Norway snapped, lifted his eyes to Denmark's. "That having so many calories in me sickens me? That the thought of getting even the slightest bit fatter makes me hate myself? That I can't even look at you without being reminded of how I will never look?"

Denmark glowered at him. "It's your own damn fault for starting this in the first place!" he seethed. Norway winced. "Now you're so skinny, it hurts me to look at you!" Norway crossed his arms in an attempt to hide how his bones jutted out. Denmark sighed, then said, a bit calmer, "I'm just trying to help you."

Norway didn't say anything for a few minutes. Denmark led them to the living room. They sat down in silence. Finally, Norway admitted in a small voice, "I don't want to be fat again. I just want to look like you."

Denmark's eyes watered. Norway pretended not to notice. "We've been over this. You don't have to look like me." Norway shrugged and looked away. "And you were never fat. I promise."

Norway didn't reply. Denmark stood up and went to the kitchen, returning after a few minutes with some leftover food. Norway stiffened.

"Now let's try this again," Denmark said.

"No."

"You need nutrients in your body, Norge," Denmark tried to reason. Norway stared at the wall. "Do I have to feed you? Because I will if I have to." Norway didn't react. "If you don't start eating more on your own, I'm going to take you to see a doctor."

That caught Norway's attention. "What?"

Denmark sighed, putting the plate aside. "I've done my best to help you, but you're not making it easy for me. I don't want you hurt, Norge." Denmark looked Norway in the eye. "I don't want you to die."

Norway rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to die, idiot."

Denmark frowned. "People die from not eating enough all the time. You might not want to admit it, but you're sick. You need professional help."

Norway crossed his arms. "I do not have an eating disorder." This he was sure of. Only girls got those, and human girls, at that. Almost never a man, and definitely not a nation. He just went overboard on trying to be skinny and perfect, but it certainly wasn't an eating disorder.

Denmark apparently thought so, for even though he dropped the argument, the next day, he dragged Norway to the doctor's. After a lot of questions and Norway burning a hole through the doctor with his glare, the shorter nation was prescribed antidepressants.

Denmark went and picked them up, leaving Norway in the car. When they returned to Norway's house – practically Denmark's, too, at this point – Denmark got a glass of water and sat down at the table across from Norway. Norway stared at the glass of water and the pill on the table.

"No," Norway stated. "I refuse." He wasn't sick. He wasn't depressed. He didn't have a disorder. He had a problem with calories and being fat and not being perfect yet, but that was it. Everyone felt like that to some degree, didn't they?

Denmark raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. "Okay, then," he said, stretching in his chair. "We'll just sit here until you take it. And maybe we can have something to eat while I wait for you to take that."

Norway clenched his fists. "It's too late for food."

Denmark gave a half-hearted smirk. "I'm always up for a snack before bed. And every time I eat, you have to eat, too."

Norway swallowed thickly. He had to decide which was worse: the pill or the food. To his horror, he found himself choking back tears. This wasn't fair. Everyone was ganging up on him. Why couldn't they understand?

"Norge," Denmark said softly, leaning forward a bit. He took Norway's hand in his. "I know this is hard for you, but I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'm going to help you, and damn it, we're going to get you better."

Norway slipped his hand from Denmark's and picked up the pill with shaking fingers. He took a breath and swallowed the pill with a gulp of water. Denmark grabbed his hand again and smiled.

"You're going to get better," he told Norway. And Norway believed him.


	4. Danger Ahead

_**One more chapter after this. Thank you everyone for your support!**_

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**Chapter Four: Danger Ahead**

Norway glared at Denmark. The taller blond only raised an eyebrow. Sighing in defeat, Norway brought the antidepressant to his lips. When he was satisfied that Norway had swallowed the pill, Denmark smiled. Norway crossed his arms. He hated taking the antidepressants. They made him feel like … not himself. He didn't like it. Not at all.

The phone rang. Denmark went to answer it. Norway waited a minute. Positive that Denmark would be talking for a while, Norway snuck to the bathroom and threw up the pill, as well as what little he'd eaten that morning.

That day, he felt better. He didn't feel fake. He didn't feel emotionless. He didn't feel like the pill was in control. No, he was the one in control. And suddenly he remembered how much control he'd had when he didn't eat.

He'd gained weight in the past few weeks. He hated it, just as much as he hated the pill. He was getting chubby. How could Denmark not notice? How could Denmark want him to get fat again? Denmark kept forcing him to eat and eat and eat, and that just made him feel nauseas and fat and worthless and not even close to perfect.

Norway decided that he needed to prevent himself from getting any fatter. He couldn't throw up as long as Denmark kept watching him like a hawk. But maybe he could exercise. And he could pretend to take the pill – it wasn't hard to hide it under his tongue. He didn't need the pill. And he just needed Denmark to trust him enough to stop watching his every move, and then he could go back to throwing up after every meal – only he'd be more careful this time. He wouldn't get caught, and he wouldn't lose control so that he was all bones. That had been a mistake. He wouldn't let it get that far again.

It took another week for him to convince Denmark to stop looking over his shoulder all the time. Denmark made sure he ate, but didn't stay as long afterwards – which gave Norway the perfect opportunity to throw up. He stopped taking showers before breakfast, so that he would have an excuse to go to the bathroom after eating. And he always went out for a "walk" after one of the other two meals, changing the amount of time afterwards and which meal he went out after, so that Denmark wouldn't get suspicious. On these "walks" he'd go down behind his property and throw up behind a tree, then cover it up. Denmark didn't like travelling out so far, so it was unlikely he would ever see him – or follow him.

About a month later, Denmark had to go to a meeting with his boss. It would last a few days, plus a few extra days to sort things out. Norway estimated a week, maybe a week and a half, that he would be unsupervised, because Denmark trusted him. Norway hated to break that trust, but he needed to be perfect. He simply couldn't have all those calories, all that fat, in his body.

He only ate celery and only drank water while Denmark was away. He dumped the antidepressants down the sink. He exercised more than ever to make up for all the fat he'd gained over the past few months. He dreaded Denmark's return – what excuse could he use so that he could exercise more, eat less, and hide the empty bottle of pills? But then Denmark had to stay for another two weeks due to some technicalities, and Norway stopped caring.

He was going to be perfect for Denmark. He was going to look better. He wasn't going to be fat. He refused to be fat ever again, no matter what Denmark or anyone else said. He didn't have a disorder. He was a nation. And a man. There was no way he had a disorder. And so he continued exercising and vomiting, even when there was nothing to vomit.

Denmark returned, and Norway hid how skinny he was with more layers underneath his normal clothes. He refused to allow Denmark to touch him. He ended up exercising the most at night and throwing up whenever Denmark wasn't in the same hallway as the bathroom.

All of the exercising and vomiting and lack of nutrients caught up to Norway only five days after Denmark's return. Norway found himself lying on the floor, dizzy, after passing out. Denmark called an ambulance, and the next thing Norway knew, he was in a hospital bed. He scrambled to disconnect the IV from his arm, only for doctors to tie him down and sedate him.

When he was coherent enough, Denmark yelled and cussed him out until the taller blond had to be removed from the room. The next time he was allowed in, Denmark just sat beside the bed and cried.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Denmark demanded, more to himself than to Norway. "You're killing yourself. Norge, you're sick. Why don't you see that?"

Norway narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sick. I'm getting better. I'm not fat. I refuse to be fat."

"Nothing I say ever gets through your head, does it?" Denmark half-shouted, glaring at Norway. "And people say I'm the dumb one."

"I'm not dumb," Norway spat.

"You're sick," Denmark repeated. "You need help." Norway looked away. "Please, Norge. Do it for me."

"Why should I?"

Denmark leaned forward. Norway's heart skipped a beat, something the heart monitor picked up on. Denmark smirked, although his eyes remained sad. "Because I love you, and I can't stand to see you hurting yourself."

Norway opened his mouth to respond. Denmark took the opportunity to kiss him. Norway kissed back.

"Get better," Denmark pleaded, resting his forehead on Norway's. "For me."

Norway bit his lip. Maybe, for Denmark, he would try. "For you."


	5. Pen and Paper

_**This is the last chapter. Thank you everyone for reading, reviewing, favorite-ing, and following!**_

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**Chapter 5: Pen and Paper**

Norway sat in his chair beside his bed. He flipped through the red journal in his hands. He needed reminders, as he so often did. He needed strength.

=/=/=

_My therapist gave me this journal. She wants me to write down how I feel … typical. I don't think I have a problem. I don't understand what Danmark is so worried about. I lost control … but I was in control, too. How does that even make sense?_

_The doctors are making me take antidepressants again. I hate them. The pills, mostly, but also the doctors. They don't know who they're dealing with. They think I'm human. If they knew just who I was, they'd have no say in my actions. Unfortunately, Danmark is on their side. He makes sure I write in this journal – "because you refuse to open up to me," he says – and watches my actions three times as much as before._

_I tried to dump the antidepressants, but Danmark caught me. He yelled at me, then broke down crying. He wouldn't let go of me for at least an hour. He doesn't trust me, not that I expect him to. It still hurts to see the betrayal and caution in his eyes, though. I tried to explain why – the reason for everything, why I think this way – but he doesn't want to hear it. And I don't want to hear what he has to say, either. I'm not sick. I'd know if I was._

=/=/=

Norway skipped a few entries. He winced at what he landed on, memories of throwing fits coming to the forefront of his mind.

=/=/=

_I'm so angry right now. And lately, as well, I suppose. I'm angry at the doctors for the antidepressants and trying to send me somewhere for "people like me." I'm angry at my therapist for pretending to care and screwing with my head. I'm angry at Danmark for making me eat, making me take the pills, making me write in this stupid journal._

_I'm angry at myself. Why can't I be good enough? Why can't I reach perfection? Why can't I make any sense of my thoughts – how can I be fat and skinny at the same time? How can I think so poorly of myself when I'm the freaking Kingdom of Norge – former Viking nation? How could I have let myself down?_

_Why can't I get these thoughts out of my head? Maybe Danmark is right. Maybe there is something wrong with me._

=/=/=

The one he read next nearly brought him to tears. Nearly.

=/=/=

_I tried to throw up after lunch today. I couldn't do it. I was too disgusted with myself. I felt horrified, both at the act and at my thought process. How had I ever done this? Why did I only now realize how wrong it was?_

_Danmark found me kneeling beside the toilet seat and crying. I told him I couldn't do it. He didn't say anything, just hugged me. I must have looked a sight. Since when do I cry in front of anyone? Since when do I allow myself to be comforted?_

_When did I decide that I had to starve to be perfect? Since when did I live for others instead of myself?_

=/=/=

Norway flipped past another several pages of the book. He grinned at one particular entry.

=/=/=

_Danmark took me out for dinner yesterday. As in, we went on a date. He helped me eat my food. He encouraged me when I thought I couldn't handle it. He held my hand while I fought the urge to purge. Afterwards, he walked me to be bedroom and stayed with me until I fell asleep. He kissed me good morning._

_He told me to get better. He told me I was already perfect. I'm starting to believe him._

=/=/=

Near the end of the journal, Norway read an entry that made him look over at the photo of his brother. The younger nation had helped more than he'd ever know.

=/=/=

_I'm gaining weight. Danmark has been showing me how to eat healthy – but indulge on sweets sometimes – and to exercise – but not overly so. I never would have thought he'd be the one to help me._

_Ísland visited me earlier this week. He brought me licorice – which I couldn't bear to eat – and a card. I read it after he left, knowing he would never tell me his feelings to my face. The card read, "Please get better, big brother."_

_I forced myself to eat three pieces of licorice. I will make him proud to be my brother._

=/=/=

He smiled in pride at the last entry of the journal.

=/=/=

_I'm finally at a healthy weight. I've kept my weight for the past week. I'm eating right. Whenever I feel like I can't eat, or like I might throw up, Danmark is always there._

_Danmark told me that if I ever felt that low about myself again, that I had to talk to him. He told me that I'm perfect the way I am, and that I can always tell him what I'm thinking – that he won't laugh._

_And I believe him. I owe him my life. Believing his word is the least I can do._

=/=/=

Norway put the journal away. He looked over at the half-awake Denmark.

"What're you doing?" Denmark asked sleepily.

Norway crawled into the bed. "Nothing." He cuddled up against Denmark, who pulled him close and kissed his temple.

"I love you," Denmark murmured.

Norway not-quite-grinned. "I know," he said softly.

Denmark held his hand. "You're perfect."

Norway looked over at Denmark. He gave a soft kiss to the taller blond. "I know."


End file.
